


Discreet

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fondling, Formalwear, Illusions, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Ten Years Later, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13879209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Chrome can feel her initial nerves giving way with every step she takes forward into the expanse of the elegant hall, until her stride is as flowing and graceful as Mukuro’s alongside her." Chrome has become adept at handling the Vongola social events, especially when Mukuro wants to claim some of her attention for himself.





	Discreet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snkt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snkt/gifts).



It’s a beautiful party.

Chrome has learned to appreciate events like this. There was a time when she would have cringed from the thought of so many stares, of so many strangers; when the idea of circulating in a crowd to smile and make conversation and draw attention to herself would have sent her retreating to the comfort of a dark room and the angle of her knees drawn up close against her chest. It’s been long years since she did anything like that -- age and experience have both been a boon, in that regard at least -- but the fear lingers, still as clear in Chrome’s memory as if some part of her is still the terrified little girl she once was. It echoes around her, now, humming in the back of her thoughts as a reminder of who she was, as a nod to who she has become; a comfort, now, more than a burden, but still there, as much a part of her existence as the once-illusioned physical form that has become her own over those same years.

She looks good. It helps to know that, to know it absolutely in more than just the whisper of Mukuro’s praise against her ear and occasionally glimpsed glances from the men and sometimes women around her. Chrome remembers that too: when those glances were threatening instead of flattering, when there was predatory hunger behind those lingering gazes considering the simple lines of the school uniform Mukuro preferred for his subordinates. But she’s not a subordinate now, by her own or anyone else’s decision, and now when she catches men glancing at her they duck their heads in submission to her beauty, in recognition even on some unacknowledged level of the power she wields over her own body and her own appearance. It’s gratifying to see, heady to feel; until Chrome can feel her initial nerves giving way with every step she takes forward into the expanse of the elegant hall, until her stride is as flowing and graceful as Mukuro’s alongside her. Her chin comes up, her lashes dip down, and when she next glances towards one of her admirers -- a woman, this time, sleek in a crimson gown and a spill of hair to match but with her eyes dark with appreciation to match the deep shade of Chrome’s own dress -- Chrome doesn’t have to think to feel the corner of her mouth angle upwards, to taste pleasure at her tongue as she watches the woman’s face color before she ducks down to hide in the weight of those scarlet curls.

“You’re stunning.” The voice at her ear is familiar, as immediately recognizable to Chrome as the pattern of her own thoughts, more certain than the shape of her own body; her head turns in answer to it without her conscious intention, her lashes dip in capitulation to the pull of that silky tone. The arm looped through her own tightens for a moment, the pressure reassurance more than urging her in closer; Chrome shifts to the side all the same to lean in as near as she can get. “No one in the room can keep their eyes off you.”

Chrome presses her lips together and swallows carefully before she answers, in a soft murmur she knows will barely make it to Mukuro’s ears at all. “I think it’s you they’re drawn to, Mukuro-sama, more than the girl you chose to escort.”

Mukuro’s laugh is a purr in the air; Chrome can feel the satisfaction of it run right down her spine as if it’s her own, as if she’s feeling Mukuro’s pleasure with all the immediacy of her own personal emotions. “You undervalue yourself, my dear,” Mukuro tells her, the words a comfort to hear even if Chrome already knows them to be true. When Mukuro leans in closer his lips brush the heavy fall of Chrome’s hair over her ear, his breath spills to heat over the curve of her neck and against the line of her gown. “You must know you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Chrome tilts her head forward; a nod, to be sure, agreement too true for her to deny it for Mukuro’s asking, but subtle enough to leave her some distance from the egotism of the words Mukuro offers for her use. “As well as you know every eye is on you, Mukuro-sama.” Chrome glances up sideways at Mukuro leaning towards her. “As they should be.”

Mukuro laughs again and straightens without adding further to Chrome’s commentary. Chrome lets her attention linger for another moment; it’s hard to look away from the vivid intensity of Mukuro’s presence at the best of times, and at the present moment he is breathtaking. He’s wearing the same black suit the rest of the Vongola wear -- it’s important to present a unified front at these kind of events -- but where most of the rest favor crisp white shirts to contrast with the dark Mukuro has chosen a deep, saturated purple, the shade so dark it looks nearly black from any distance greater than what Chrome is maintaining. The color sets off the shades of his hair, bringing out hints of blue from the tied-back length of it down his back and the sharp angles falling around his face, and it makes his uncovered crimson eye seem to almost glow with the power of the realms it bears. The effect makes him seem regal and inhuman at once, as if he’s the ruler of some other universe deigning to narrow his attention enough to visit this one; Chrome wonders distantly if she carries the same kind of force at Mukuro’s side, if the sleek fall of her matched dress and the shadows of her hair over her covered eye grant her the appearance of a foreign queen, lingering in this world only by the tether of Mukuro’s arm in hers. It seems impossible, like the insane dream of a human imagining herself a star; and then Mukuro glances at her, his gaze lingering appreciation against her skin, and Chrome can feel herself remade in the warmth of his eyes on her.

Mukuro leads her across the room. Chrome recognizes most of the faces here: the other Guardians, of course, and the more extended members of the family that have been called into attendance. There’s I-Pin in the corner, nursing a plate of appetizers and doing her best to keep Lambo out of the trouble that comes with flirting with the visiting members of other families; Haru is deep in discussion with someone Chrome knows to be the son of a rival group, although they seem to be discussing a costuming technique rather than something more politically charged. Chrome even catches a glimpse of Bianchi, sweeping through the almost uniform black of the crowd around her in a gown of clinging satin that leaves the long line of her throat bare to sweep up towards the pile of curls into which she has arranged her wine-dark hair. The room is full of conversation, whispered discussions and the booming laughter of men too important to mind the tenor of the rest of the room; Chrome feels faintly dizzy, as if she’s had one too many glasses of wine and is hovering in that vague, warm place that comes with mild intoxication. But Mukuro’s arm is steady under hers, a fixed point she can rely on in a sea of illusions, and that’s enough to keep her steps even and her posture precise as he navigates the array of political possibilities to find the one he’s interested in.

“It’s been some time since we last saw you,” he says at last, as he draws himself and Chrome to a halt just behind a pair of broad shoulders in a jacket straining against the seams. “It’s good to have a chance to catch up with the goings-on once more.”

The man before them turns sharply, huffing a breath of frustration that gives way to wide eyes as he looks up to Mukuro’s deliberate smile and to Chrome standing just alongside him. He’s a large man, in stature as well as in girth, but Mukuro’s slimmer build still gives him the advantage of height for the purposes of the present conversation. Chrome still falls somewhat below his eye level, however steep her heels may be; but he only spares a glance for her before he turns his focus back to Mukuro as the primary leader of the conversation.

“Yeah, well.” The man grimaces and lifts a hand to press against the slicked-back yellow of his hair, as if he’s testing to ensure the strands are still lying as they are meant to. “Not too long ago we weren’t exactly welcome by your Family.” Chrome’s lashes dip at this comment, her chin comes up very slightly; Mukuro laughs outright, a velvety, purring sound deep in his throat that loses no part of its edge for the dark weight of it.

“The Vongola?” he asks. “You mistake me if you associate me with any part of them.”

The man’s eyebrows raise. “Come on,” he scoffs. “I’m not blind. You’re not about to convince me you and your girl aren’t that Sawada’s pets to direct where he wills.”

“Mm,” Mukuro hums. He’s still smiling, there’s a curl against the edge of his lips, but Chrome doesn’t need to lift her gaze away from the man before him to know how ice cold his eyes must be. “Your opinions are your own to hold, but you would be mistaken to assume that Sawada Tsunayoshi holds such complete sway over Chrome or myself.” A pause, just long enough to make the addition sound an afterthought: “Or most of his Guardians, for that matter.”

“Sure,” the man says, still carrying the weight of deep skepticism on his tone. “Everyone knows you were being held by the Vindice before he and his came to spring you loose. That’s not the kind of debt an honorable man turns his back on.”

Mukuro’s laugh is outright, this time. “I don’t know where you received the idea that that word is one to apply to me,” he says. “Or one that I aspire to.”

There’s a pause. The man is staring at Mukuro in full now; he sees to have forgotten Chrome and the weight of her gaze on him is there at all. “Is that so?” He sounds considering, now, like he’s unfolding some measure of the weight that Mukuro has layered onto his words. “What is it that you _do_ aspire to, then?”

Mukuro’s smile carries teeth with it; Chrome can see the edges of it reflected in the pallor on the other man’s face as he looks up into the bright of Mukuro’s gaze. “Perhaps someday you’ll be lucky enough to find out,” he says, and ducks forward into the sketch of a bow before straightening. “Enjoy the party. Come along, Chrome.” And Mukuro leads them forward again, sweeping Chrome around the solid weight of the man left looking after them with consideration in his eyes.

Chrome waits until they are nearly on the other side of the room before she speaks, and then it’s in an undertone soft enough that Mukuro has to duck his head to hear her. “He’s a plant?”

“Mm,” Mukuro hums. “I do love the wine they serve here. Sawada really spares no expense. Or is that Gokudera Hayato’s doing, do you think?” He reaches for a glass of the aforementioned wine from a tray borne by one of the waiters pacing carefully through the room and brings it towards his face to take a breath of the aroma wafting free of the liquid.

“Definitely,” he murmurs against the surface of the wine, speaking so softly Chrome can better read the words from the shift of his lips than she can hear them. “I don’t know for what family, yet.”

“Not his own,” Chrome almost-asks, repeating back the unstated implication of Mukuro’s words.

Mukuro’s head shakes. He swallows a mouthful of wine and lowers it, sighing in clear appreciation. “This is truly exquisite,” he says, and tips in sideways to offer it to Chrome. “Try a sip.” Chrome accepts the glass and brings it to her lips for a deliberately small taste, hardly enough to wet her tongue; she can feel Mukuro’s gaze on her, the dark of his attention lingering with affection to anyone who glances at them. He looks like an adoring lover, amusing himself in the pleasure of his pretty plaything, the both of them too distracted in each other to notice anything around them.

“The head of his family is speaking to our favorite canary outside,” Mukuro says. Chrome tips her head over the wine, nodding appreciation as she hands the glass back to Mukuro; when she casts her gaze sideways through her hair she can just see the shadow by the door to the balcony where Kusakabe lingering out of crowding range while Hibari speaks to someone else. “Whatever plot he’s hatching he’s doing on his own, as a traitor to his own family.”

Chrome lifts her hand to push the fall of her hair behind her ear and block her lips from anyone who may care to pay attention to what has all the appearance of a lover’s interlude. “Shall I speak to him?”

Mukuro laughs again. “I wouldn’t waste your skills on a man like that,” he says. “I can keep an eye on him at a distance, he’s clumsy enough to fall right into it.” He takes another sip of the wine before bringing the glass out into an arc that gestures towards the far side of the room. “Try the blonde in the corner. She looks less than scintillated by her escort and you’re always particularly effective with that kind of woman.” Mukuro slides his arm free of Chrome’s hold and lifts his hand to brush against her hair, the gesture affectionate and possessive at once as he ducks in to skim his lips just against her forehead. “Good luck.” Chrome ducks her head into a nod, gratitude and understanding at once in the gesture; and then she lifts her head, and tosses her hair back from her face, and steps forward across the room to leave Mukuro to lure in another conversational partner while she goes to secure one of her own.

Chrome stays occupied like that for a while. The room is full, and she soon loses track of Mukuro; even his remarkable eyes are difficult to see from across a room, and the dark of his shirt is lost in the crowd before she’s halfway across the space. She could point to him if she thought about it, if she had to -- she can always feel the pull of his presence at the back of her mind, like a taut thread always linking them even when they are physically distant -- but she doesn’t turn to look along it. Mukuro is busy with his own pursuits, offering the gentle threat of temptation to those who fancy themselves important within their own organization, or who mistake his well-known dislike of the mafia as a willingness to turn traitor for anyone but himself; Chrome is no more than a decoration for those conversations, and Mukuro would be a barrier to her own. Chrome knows how she looks: beautiful, yes, striking in the cut of her gown and the dark of her hair, but fragile, too, with a delicacy built into the dip of her lips and the wide of her eye she can’t shed without the active use of illusion to frame herself to another face. People trust her, in some cases, and thirst for her, in others; and in both they take the lines of her face for a reflection of her psyche without catching themselves in their own faulty assumptions. It’s an understandable mistake, one Chrome has seen people make over all the long years since she met Mukuro; and it’s a predictable one, something upon which she -- and Mukuro -- can bet their information gathering without fear of failure.

The blonde _is_ talkative. Chrome has her attention almost as soon as she approaches, in the lingering weight of blue eyes against the neckline of her gown and the curve of red lips in answer to her own tentative smile; it doesn’t take the help of a glass of wine for the woman to tip in close and murmur complaints about her supposed date against the fall of Chrome’s hair. Chrome’s not sure if it’s intended as the opening round of a flirtation or if the other woman is just frustrated enough to take the first sympathetic ear she can get; but regardless of the cause, she learns far more of the preferences and habits of the head of the Venuto family than she thinks her new acquaintance is even aware of sharing. Chrome lingers there for a quarter hour, until the woman’s escort remembers that he has a date at all and returns to collect her; and then she sees herself off with a careful smile that will be taken for shy encouragement before she turns to wind her way through the crowd and find the next bored guest. This one is a young man, newly raised to the heights to grant him access to this event and awkward with his own presence; he’s shocked speechless by her, coloring to crimson every time she so much as smiles and with his eyes wandering across her collarbones and the curve of her waist instead of managing to meet her gaze directly. He lacks much valuable information, in the end; but Chrome ends with a smile, and thanks him for the conversation, and if the color at his cheeks and the lingering weight of his gaze is any indication she has an established admirer who will be more than willing to impress her at future gatherings by bragging over how much he’s risen in his family by offering the information that comes with that.

It’s an easy thing, after that. Chrome has the feel of it now, has the taste of wine on her tongue and the weight of shadows at her lashes; she doesn’t need to catch Mukuro’s eye from across the room to know who to turn her attention to next. She can almost sense it, as if she’s feeling the weight of appreciation in gazes that linger on her from across the distance of the room; it’s like seeing through an illusion, like casting her gaze just right to cut past the dizzying wall of facade and deception to see the truth underneath, the simple array of desire and power that remain the same no matter how well-dressed or soft-spoken someone may try to appear. Chrome walks through the web around her untouched, maneuvering past the slow-shifting eddies and the dangerous hidden whirlpools of diplomacy, and with every tentative smile and every shift of her lashes she gains more information, control and knowledge to serve her and her master well. Some of this may return to the boss’s ear, in the end; but Chrome knows who she serves ultimately, and she’s sure Sawada laughing nervously in a heated conversation on the other side of the room knows as well. It’s a business arrangement between them, an understanding Mukuro has come to with the head of the Vongola; an understanding very like that Chrome suspects to be made with each of the other Guardians. They are a disparate group, she can see that even in the clusters of interactions happening through the gala around her; but Sawada has found a means to hold each of them to a single cause, and Chrome can respect that, even if her own allegiance is only present because of Mukuro’s.

There’s a touch at her waist, a moment of glancing contact so unhesitating that Chrome knows whose hand it is sliding against the low back of her gown even if she didn’t feel the bone-deep satisfaction that always comes with the weight of Mukuro’s touch against her. “You’re looking pensive, my dear,” Mukuro’s voice murmurs against the weight of her hair, on her shadowed side where Chrome’s eyepatch prevents her from easily looking up to see him. “You haven’t stumbled upon some cunning plot we can take advantage of, have you?”

Chrome shakes her head. “No,” she says, and tips her weight very slightly to the side to let her shoulder press against the crisp dark of Mukuro’s jacket. “I was just thinking about the Vongola.”

“The Vongola,” Mukuro repeats, his voice layering that one word with the force of amusement. “Come now, surely there are more interesting subjects to be had than work.” Chrome lifts her head to look up at Mukuro properly; he’s smiling down at her, his gaze fixed on her face and his attention apparently fully given over for her keeping. “Shall I see if I can find something better for you to consider?”

Chrome blinks up at Mukuro. “You seem in high spirits yourself, Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro’s lips curve up onto a smile as dark as his shirt. “Indeed I am,” he says. His hand slides across the bare skin of Chrome’s back to draw the support of his arm smoothly around her; his fingers settle into the dip just over her hip. When he reaches out it’s to take the half-full glass of wine Chrome is still bracing in her fingers and draw it away from her keeping. “Come with me and I’ll let you in on the secret.” He reaches out sideways, offering the glass without looking to a waiter who appears as if a convenient illusion himself to sweep the wine away; and then the arm against Chrome’s back is pulling her into a turn, and she is moving as smoothly, letting Mukuro’s hold around her guide her through the crowd. The party is busy, the crowd stirring with ripples of its own as conversation and flirtations ebb and flow around them, but Mukuro still guides them with unerring precision, deftly moving through the close of conversations and groups just disintegrating before them instead of interrupting new-formed dynamics. Chrome thinks she could shut her eye and let Mukuro steer her without watching at all, his touch is so sure; but she keeps looking, if only for the pleasure of seeing the stir of people before them part as if by Mukuro’s will as he leads her out of the crowd and towards the relative seclusion of an alcove at the side of the room.

“There,” he says as he draws them to the fringe of the crowd, steering Chrome to a halt at the same time he turns to smile down at her. “I think we’ve earned a few minutes of privacy for ourselves, don’t you?” He lifts a hand to press against Chrome’s hair and urge the weight of it back and over her shoulder, tucking the fall of shadow it creates behind her ear as he trails his fingertips gently against the line of her cheek; Chrome can’t help but tip in against that contact, can’t help but lean in for more of Mukuro’s touch lingering over her skin. Mukuro’s hand shifts, his palm cups gently against her cheek; his fingers are as gentle as the silk of her gown sliding against her skin. “Tell me what you’ve learned from the distinguished guests of the Vongola.”

“There are three plots in the making,” Chrome says at once, without hesitating at all in offering the words to Mukuro before her. The hand at her cheek slides down to trace against her jaw and just against the line of her throat; she tilts into that too, letting her head angle to the side to offer the curve of her neck for the friction of Mukuro’s fingers. “Two of them are poorly planned and likely to collapse on their own, but the larger one may gain enough traction to cause some trouble.”

“The Rosiellos,” Mukuro murmurs against Chrome’s hair. “Yes. One of their subordinates has had a few too many glasses of wine and seems prone to vanity.”

Chrome ducks her head. “You know already.”

“Mm.” Mukuro’s fingers slip down farther, trailing against Chrome’s neck to dip over the line of her collarbone and wander friction against her bare skin. Chrome can feel herself prickle with goosebumps, as if Mukuro’s touch carries a shiver of heat with it. “That doesn’t make your information useless.” He ducks in closer; the angle shadows over Chrome’s bare skin with the tilt of his shoulders as much as it presses him near enough to ghost his lips against the fall of her hair across her forehead. “We’ll compare details later, when we have more privacy to ourselves.”

Chrome presses her lips together and swallows as quietly as she can. “Yes, Mukuro-sama.” The words still carry a thrum of tension on them, a suggestion of heat she can’t avoid, but she’s speaking so softly they will go unheard by anyone but the man himself, and she’s never had anything to hide from Mukuro.

Chrome can feel Mukuro’s smile curve against her forehead. “That’s my sweet Chrome,” he says. His thumb trails over her collarbone, pressing as if he’s feeling out the shape of the bone drawing the skin taut over it; his fingers arc down instead, sliding towards the neckline of Chrome’s dress as they press gently in against the top swell of her breast caught within the fabric. Chrome’s lashes flutter, her head tips back; but she still finds voice from the heat building in the back of her throat, from the surrender tilting her head back and curving her neck into a smooth line of suggestion.

“Mukuro-sama.” Her voice truly is a whisper now; she’s never able to manage anything louder, not when she has the distraction of Mukuro’s touch to draw her from herself, to urge her into another making, another seeming, as if the whole of her existence is an illusion pliant and malleable under his fingers. “The party…?”

“People are easily fooled,” Mukuro murmurs into her hair. Chrome casts her gaze sideways to look past the barrier of Mukuro’s shoulder; but there are no eyes turning towards them, no curious or judgmental glances lingering on their display. There’s hardly even the flicker of hesitation that comes naturally to eyes skipping over other people; casual glances pass right through them to linger idly at the wall over Chrome’s shoulder and the expensive, ornate painting hanging there. Mukuro’s fingers dip down, his touch slides just under the neckline of Chrome’s gown; Chrome’s attention gives way, melting itself into a huff of a breath that spills past her lips in time with Mukuro’s hand sliding in and around to cup the weight of her breast inside the lacy fragility of her bra. Her skin flushes to pink, color sweeping up to stain her cheeks and follow the path of Mukuro’s touch down across the inside slope of her breasts; and Mukuro hums a low sound in the back of his throat, the noise of it purring with satisfaction as his fingers settle into place inside the clinging weight of Chrome’s dress.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice very soft against Chrome’s hair, like a whisper, like a lullaby to soothe away any flickering concern from her thoughts. “No one will see anything.”

Chrome knows that. Chrome would trust Mukuro’s word on this as much as in anything else, even if she couldn’t see the flicker of indigo light at the corner of her eye, like a haze of color overlaying everything before her in such a fine web she can barely catch it even looking for it. She would shut her eye outright if Mukuro asked it of her, would turn her face out to the murmur of the crowd that sounds so distant and vague with her own distraction ringing in her ears; she long ago handed every part of herself over to Mukuro’s keeping, for Mukuro’s use, if he can make use of it. Anything Mukuro wishes to do to her, behind an illusion or otherwise: Chrome will lift her head, and shut her eye, and hand herself over for the asking in that voice that has served such invaluable, essential guidance to her for the last years of the renewed life granted her by the same. So it’s not fear that sticks in her throat any more than it is panic racing her heartbeat against the line of her neck; it’s all it ever is, obedience and desire and relief intermingled so closely Chrome can’t hope to fret the edges apart one from the other even if she cared to try.

“Mukuro-sama,” she breathes now, as she braces a hand close against Mukuro’s arm, as the hand inside her dress slides in and down to lift the weight of her breast, to slide a careful thumb across the hardening point of her nipple. “Can they hear us?”

“Mm,” Mukuro hums. “Illusion away the appearance but not the sound?” His hand tightens, his fingers squeeze; Chrome’s back arches, her breath rushes free of her lips in a voiceless gasp. “You _do_ have a knack for seeing possibilities, my dear.” His fingers loosen again, his hand at Chrome’s waist slides down to cradle her hip; Chrome lifts her free hand up to land her fingers feather-light at the line of Mukuro’s suit jacket.

“No,” Mukuro says, still speaking in that low tone that brought the question to Chrome’s mind in the first place. “We’re as alone now as if we were behind a locked door.” His hips tilt forward into a sketched-out arc of motion; it’s barely enough to skim Chrome’s dress, but she can still feel her chest tighten with the anticipation the motion brings with it, can feel heat collecting to a pool down low in her belly. “Think of the rest of it as a particularly interesting view and nothing more.”

Chrome shudders over a breath, heat spilling past her lips to rush against the dark of Mukuro’s suit jacket. “Yes, Mukuro-sama.”

She can feel Mukuro’s laugh hum down the whole length of her spine like the vibration is running through her blood, like it’s settling in the marrow of her bones. “That’s my good Chrome,” he says. His hand at Chrome’s hip slides up to press to the small of her back and urge her in close against him; Chrome lets her arm come up around Mukuro’s shoulders to brace herself steady before she shuts her eye and leans in to press her forehead to Mukuro’s shoulder and entrust herself to the drag of his wandering hands.

Mukuro is gentle with her. Mukuro is always gentle with her; he has never been anything but breathlessly, delicately tender in every word, in every touch. Chrome wonders sometimes if that’s not what so enraptured her in the first place: that sense of being treated like something fragile, like something precious, like something worth protecting. It’s a heady feeling even now, even when she has learned how to stand on her own, how to hold her head up and meet the gazes that linger against her in her full strength; there’s something satisfying to this surrender, to winding her arms around Mukuro’s neck and bracing her fingers in Mukuro’s hair and letting the rest of the world fade away, letting the murmur of the gala around them and the illusion-hazed gazes of their potential audience vanish out of her attention. In this moment there’s only Mukuro, his breathing at her hair and his body against hers and his hand at her back; and his fingers, gentle and certain as they fit between the clinging fall of her dress to press to her bare skin, to urge her breast to a flush of heat and her nipple to a hard point of desire. Chrome’s breathing comes faster in her chest, she can feel the pace of it pressing her closer to Mukuro’s touch with every full-throated inhale she takes; and she can feel the heat of his fingers spilling into her, liquid tendrils of want collecting low in her body to ache at her hips, to glow radiant heat between her thighs. Her breathing is giveaway enough, to someone who knows her as well as Mukuro does; when Mukuro’s fingers slide sideways to reach for her other breast, to lay claim to the second as thoroughly as he did the first, Chrome can’t help the way her arms tighten around his neck, can’t help the whimper of desire that drags itself free of her throat.

Mukuro’s laugh is so deep in his chest that Chrome can feel it against her more clearly than she can hear it. “You always sound so beautiful like this, Chrome,” he says. His fingers reach, his grip flexes; for a moment Chrome’s throat closes on want, even the half-voiced moans in her chest stalled out by the pressure of pleasure that grips her. Her knees shift, her thighs press together; Mukuro’s hand at her back slides up to pass the low-swept edge of her dress and brace flush against bare skin, just against the curve of her spine arching her back and into his hold. “Let me hear you, my dear.”

“Oh,” Chrome whimpers. “Mukuro-sama.” It’s hardly coherent, the words are more a prayer than clarity; but Mukuro purrs satisfaction all the same, and when his hand at her back pulls forward it’s to press her close against the support of his body, to cradle her against the stability of his chest. His knee tips forward, the press of it urging against the trembling line of her legs; Chrome gusts an exhale and shifts her feet so she can bring her knees apart, can make space for Mukuro’s thigh to slot into place between her own. Her dress slides against her skin, the flowing weight of it separating to bare the whole length of her leg from ankle to the top inches of her thigh as the slit against the side draws open; but Mukuro’s leg is pressing hard between Chrome’s thighs, and she’s not thinking about her dress any more than she’s thinking about the rest of the room on the far side of whatever illusion Mukuro has crafted around them. Mukuro’s hands are pulling her closer, his leg is pressing in hard against her hips, and Chrome’s breathing rushes out of her at once, all the air in her lungs spilling free in a moan lower and throatier than she thought she was capable of voicing.

“Yes,” Mukuro purrs; except his voice is going lower, it’s dipping down and spreading out into a groan as it takes on depth and weight all its own. His hips shift, his foot slides closer as he rocks in against Chrome, close enough that she can feel the heat of his arousal sliding against the fall of her gown spilling over her thigh, but when he moves it’s to draw her closer still, to raise her up off the careful balance of her heels and grind her against the support of his leg between hers. Chrome’s head comes forward, her breath spills from her in a groan that goes hot and whimpering as friction slides hard against her, and Mukuro’s lips are pressing to her ear, his breathing coming so close it’s ruffling the weight of her loose hair.

“My beautiful Chrome,” he hums, the usual polish on his voice giving way over the shadows that always lurk just under the surface, the velvet of night that Chrome knows, that Chrome can feel running in her veins with every beat of her heart, right alongside the illusions that have made her into the person she is today. “I’ve been thinking of this all night long.” His hips tip forward; for a moment they’re pinned close together, the whole line of their bodies pressing flush to one another through the layers of fabric between them. Chrome wonders vaguely if they could be distinguished if someone really were seeing them, or if the dark of her dress would catch and blend into the shadows of Mukuro’s suit to shade them into a single outline, a single existence at the far edge of the ballroom. “Ever since I saw you in that dress.”

“Mukuro-sama,” Chrome breathes. She can taste heat on her tongue, can breathe Mukuro into her lungs like wine far sweeter and far darker than what is being passed around on the trays the waiters are circling around the room. “I...please.”

“Please?” Mukuro repeats back. His voice unfurls the petals of Chrome’s tight-pressed request, a rose spilling into full bloom over his tongue. His head ducks down; for a moment his lips are pressing close to Chrome’s throat, his mouth is settling the print of his touch against the flutter of her heartbeat at her neck. “What do you want from me, Chrome?”

Chrome has to press her lips together tight, has to take a breath through her nose to collect herself. Her heart is racing, her legs are trembling; she thinks it’s only the support of Mukuro’s hand at her back and the radiating pressure of that thigh slotted between her own keeping her upright at all. She feels dizzy already, like she’s unravelling as she is to fall open against Mukuro’s touch; but her hand is clutching against the back of Mukuro’s collar, and her breath is catching on the edge of desperate want, and if there’s anything Chrome has learned how to do in the last years it’s to ask for what she wants.

“Take me,” she says, soft against Mukuro’s shirt but loud enough that she’s certain he’ll hear her. “Please, Mukuro-sama, I want--I want to have you.”

Mukuro’s sigh against Chrome’s hair is drawn-out, warm and radiant with satisfaction, as if some favorite hope of his has just been met. “Ah, Chrome,” he purrs. “You always exceed my expectations.” His hand at her dress pulls away, his fingers slipping up and out of the neckline of her gown as he lets her breast go; Chrome can’t help the huff of loss that spills from her lips at the removal of his touch, but Mukuro is moving without making her wait as he reaches down to draw his touch in against the heavy fall of her skirt around her legs. His fingers catch at the fabric, his hold draws it up; Chrome can feel the hem rising against the line of her calf as Mukuro collects the fall of her skirt in his fingers, as his hold urges the other side up along her leg to a height that more than matches the slit falling open against her other thigh.

“Here?” Mukuro asks as Chrome’s skirt comes up, as her trembling thighs are laid bare for anyone who can see past the shimmer of Mukuro’s illusion granting them privacy even in the midst of a crowded party. “Is this where you want me to touch you?” His hand slides under her dress entirely, his fingers draw up over her thigh; Chrome’s legs flex hard against Mukuro’s thigh between hers, anticipation spills from her in a gasp, but Mukuro doesn’t so much as hesitate in the slow upwards path of his fingers. “Tell me, Chrome.”

“There,” Chrome says, her voice breaking weak on heat; but there’s nothing weak in her grip when she drops her hold on Mukuro’s shoulder to reach down, to close her fingers against the flex of his wrist. Mukuro lets his fingers go slack as soon as Chrome touches him, lets his hand give way to the guidance of her hold, and Chrome draws him in and across, up over her thigh and higher, around to the front of her hips where she’s straddling the support of his thigh between hers. Chrome ducks her head down, still breathing hard but making the effort to open her eye, to blink her vision into focus on the dark line of Mukuro’s cuff clinging close to the pale span of his fingers; the fall of her skirt is heavy, like a curtain blocking her vision more thoroughly than the shadows between their bodies, but Mukuro moves as if his body is following the guidance of her wishes, his fingers reaching out to catch against the silky edge of her panties as quickly as she guides his touch towards them. His fingers slide in against the lowest part of her stomach, his touch dips in beneath the sleek fabric of her panties to press against the heat of her skin, and Chrome’s fingers tighten at his wrist, her hold more to brace herself steady than to guide him as she rocks herself forward with instinctive force. Her breathing catches around the heat in her chest, her voice whimpers into a moan of relief, and Mukuro’s fingers slide down unurged, pressing gently against her as his touch seeks out the ache between her legs with unerring precision.

“Chrome,” Mukuro says, his voice shimmering to shadowed depths; and Chrome shuts her eye and breathes out a gasp of relief as Mukuro’s touch presses in and against her. His thumb slides in against her clit, the texture of his fingerprint dragging an ache of friction out and into her veins as his fingers dip in between her thighs to slide against the wet heat within her. Chrome can feel her whole body draw taut, can feel the electricity of Mukuro’s touch rushing up her spine and flaring gold against the back of her head; but Mukuro stays where he is, touching against her without quite pressing inside. His thumb slides, his touch urging her to heat with the simple friction of idle motion, but there’s no intent behind it, Chrome can see through the illusion of force as if she’s watching the action in a play. Mukuro’s touch is just ghosting over her, trailing over the heat of her body like he’s learning the shape of it, as if he doesn’t know her better than anyone else; and Chrome is trembling with it as if she’s a bowstring drawing taut, as if the whole of her existence is tensing to a single sustained note of strain. She bears it as long as she can, quivering through her inhales and clutching tight at Mukuro’s wrist; and then his thumb slips, his touch grinds in against her, and a moan breaks free from her throat, pulling itself loose as her hips buck forward of their own accord, as instinct rocks her in against the teasing weight of his touch.

“Mukuro-sama,” she starts, not knowing what she’ll follow it with, not knowing what kind of truth Mukuro’s grazing touch will pull from her; and then his fingers curl, the tip of his index finger catches to slide just inside her, and Chrome’s voice breaks open, skipping into a high range that would surely pull every eye in the room to them were it free to echo against the arched ceiling overhead. “ _Ah_.”

“Here,” Mukuro says; not a question but a statement, purring with possessive certainty as his finger slips deeper to press inside her. “You’re so ready, Chrome.” His hand rocks forward, his palm grinding against Chrome as his touch slides up to work into the give of her body; and then he’s pulling away at once, his finger and his thumb and the whole heat of his palm slipping away as quickly as Chrome can gasp over a breath. Chrome’s spine shivers with the loss, her shoulders tense with the absence of Mukuro’s touch, but Mukuro’s fingers are sliding up and around before she can fill her lungs with the potential for voice, his touch catching under the edge of her panties to draw the clinging weight of them away from her skin.

“Let’s get these off you,” Mukuro says, his voice humming to unfathomed depths on the word; and he’s drawing back, sliding his leg free from between Chrome’s with as much easy grace as he fit them together. Chrome catches her balance, a little shaky on the support of her heels and her unsteady legs; but she still has her hold on Mukuro’s shoulder to keep her upright, and she’s caught her balance back by the time Mukuro is drawing his foot back to dip to a knee on the polished floor beneath her. His head bows, his hand pulls; for a moment Chrome is standing above him, looking down at the dark smooth of Mukuro’s hair before her as his touch slides down her thighs to urge her panties free of her legs. Chrome’s whole body flushes hot with self-awareness, with the heady thrill of looking down at Mukuro, of Mukuro on his knees before her trembling self; and then his touch skims against her ankle, his hand drops to brace at her calf, and:

“Step,” Mukuro murmurs, and Chrome does, leaning in close against the support of Mukuro’s shoulder under her hand so she can trust her balance to one precarious heel. She trembles for a moment, her position unsteady but maintained by the extra support as Mukuro slides her panties free of her ankle and down over her heel; then his touch guides her foot back to the floor, and Chrome is shifting her weight even before he urges her into the motion to step free with her other foot as well. It’s only a moment, a breath of careful balance before Mukuro is lowering her heel back to the ground and sliding her panties into his pocket before lifting his head; and then he’s standing at once, rising to his feet in a single elegant motion as if he’s unbound from the limits of gravity that pin down mortal men. Chrome’s head comes up, her breath catches as she looks up into Mukuro leaning over her, and Mukuro’s lips curve onto a smile, the angle of it as lopsided as the color of those eyes pinning her in place.

“Chrome,” Mukuro hums, rolling the vowels of Chrome’s name as if he’s tasting honey on his tongue, and when he raises his hand to catch at the back of her head Chrome is already raising her chin and offering the part of her lips for his mouth. She shuts her eye as he ducks in, surrendering her vision as easily as she gives up her balance to the press of his hand at her back and the forward tilt of his shoulders to dip her back; and then he’s straightening, lifting her back into balance as smoothly as he swept it away from her, and his hand at her back slides around to catch at her waist and urge her into a turn.

“The column,” Mukuro’s voice instructs, an order gentle with the certainty of obedience; and Chrome moves, stepping forward at once without waiting for the press of that palm against her back to urge her to it. There’s a column just a few strides ahead, even measured by the shorter steps her shoes force her to; she moves for it without hesitating over the boundaries of Mukuro’s illusion, without turning her head to see how far the shimmer of twisted light extends. Enough that Mukuro tells her to move, enough that this is what he wishes of her; and she’s reaching out to touch against the smooth of the pillar as she draws closer to it, pressing her hands close to the polished marble in expectation of Mukuro’s next request. Her dress is slick against her skin, she can feel every shift of her body as if it’s being echoed back by the pull of silk across her; it feels decadent, hedonistic, as if her dress has become lingerie just by the removal of what she was wearing beneath. Her hips shift, the dress slides, and Chrome shudders over a breath, shutting her eye and ducking her head in surrender to the pulse of anticipation in her veins. There’s the sound of footsteps, whisper-soft between expensive shoes and smooth-polished floor; and then a hand, a touch weighting against her hip, and Chrome’s chest seizes tight on an inhale even before Mukuro’s fingers curl to urge her skirt up by an inch.

“Right here,” Mukuro says, his voice a thunderstorm on a distant horizon; and Chrome’s skirt slides up, the silk drawing across her skin under its own weight as Mukuro’s fingers collect a handful of it, as Mukuro’s hand comes out to fit in and under the slit climbing against her thigh. His palm presses to her skin, his hand fits close against Chrome’s body, and Chrome can’t help the way her weight shifts, the way her back arches to press back and into the warmth of Mukuro’s touch against her. The contact is intimate, even just against her hip; the drag of his fingers reminds her what she’s wearing, reminds her what she’s not wearing, what is being laid bare for his consideration with each inch of height the hem of her dress rises against her legs. Chrome’s knees are shaking, she’s sure it’s only the support of her hands at the pillar before her that is keeping her upright; and her face is glowing, radiant with desire so strong she can feel it parting her lips, can feel it weighting against her lashes. She feels like she’s fraying apart, as if the texture of her dress drawing up over her might be enough to knock her out of herself, to shake her loose of her fragile grasp on reality around her; and then Mukuro lifts, and the hem of her dress draws free, and Chrome’s breath spills from her in a rush at the awareness of Mukuro’s lingering gaze against her.

“Perfect,” Mukuro says, soft, like maybe he’s speaking to himself; like maybe Chrome is pulling the words free from his mind directly, from that shared space of existence they occupied for so long. He pushes her dress up around her waist, flipping the hem up so it won’t slide back down before he braces his other hand against her far hip to bracket her to stillness for a moment. His thumbs slide up over Chrome’s skin, his fingers trail against the edge of her hipbones pressing taut under the surface; and then he sighs an exhale of satisfaction, and Chrome can hear the faint squeak of his shoe moving against the surface underfoot. There’s a touch against the inside of her foot, a delicate weight urging at the inside arch, and Chrome moves at once, trusting her balance to the support of Mukuro’s hands as she slides her feet wider, spreading her legs to enough width to grant him the space to fit his feet between her own. Mukuro steps closer at once, settling himself into place as if he belongs there, as if Chrome’s motion is an open invitation; as it is, after all, however voiceless Chrome may find herself in this moment. His hand lifts from her hip, there’s the soft sound of metal sliding over itself; Chrome breathes deep, filling her lungs with silence before letting heat spill off her tongue, as if she’s breathing steam out into the air around her. Her heart is pounding with adrenaline, her legs and arms and shoulders all trembling with helpless force; and yet she’s calm, almost sedate, as if she’s distant from her body, as if she’s watching someone else leaning forward against a pillar, as if she’s hearing someone else slide in close behind her and pull at her hip to urge her into a better angle. There’s a press of friction against her body, the heavy heat of Mukuro’s cock dragging against the inside of her thigh as he fits himself into place against the aching want of Chrome’s body; and then Mukuro rocks forward, his cock slides up and in, and Chrome’s eye opens wide, her breath rushing from her with force enough to turn itself to a moan enough to make up for all her silence before. Her distance is gone, that strange not-quite removal evaporated as if on contact with Mukuro’s body; she’s herself again, immediately, vividly present, until she can feel every inch of depth Mukuro gains within her as if he’s fitting himself against the whole interior of her body, as if she might be becoming him in fact the way she used to, when they shared the single space of her illusioned form.

“Ah,” Mukuro sighs, and Chrome can taste his breath against her lips, as if that sound of satisfaction is spilling from her own throat, as if that tremor of pleasure is tensing in her own fingertips. “My Chrome.” His hips draw back slow, slide forward smooth; Chrome can feel the movement like heat, like all the friction is converting itself to a pleasant burn radiating out into all her limbs until she expects her fingers to be glowing as if with the light from a captured star. Mukuro moves again, seeking out a rhythm Chrome can feel pulsing within her alongside her heartbeat, in time with her breathing, rising and swelling as if to press against the flat of her stomach, as if to ache against the weight of her breasts caught inside the lace of her bra. Her breathing is spilling to steam past her lips, her arms are flexing to press back with each forward thrust Mukuro takes into her; her eye is open but she’s not seeing the pattern of the polished marble before her any more than she’s listening to the murmur of conversation filling the rest of the room. She’s seeing purple, the colors shifting and morphing from violet to midnight black and back again; and she’s hearing the rhythm of her heartbeat, the pant of Mukuro’s breathing, the soft, slick sounds of their bodies slotting together, of their selves moving forward and into a unified whole with each thrust Mukuro takes. All of it is heat, spreading out to glow against her skin, to haze in the air around her, until Chrome feels like she must be incandescent with light, as if even Mukuro’s perfect illusions must be giving way to the demand of the radiance coursing through her veins in time with her blood, in rhythm with her breathing. She can’t tell if her eye is open anymore, doesn’t know if what she’s seeing is what Mukuro wants her to see or the inventions of her own mind; and it doesn’t matter, as it never matters, when they’re like this, when the distinction between the one of them and the other has blurred itself out of existence to fit them together.

“God,” a voice groans; Chrome can hear it ringing against her ears, can feel it echoing against the inside of her chest until she can’t tell whose voice it is, can’t tell if either of them have spoken at all or if that sound is some shared fantasy between their attuned thoughts. “You--” and the speaker breaks off as there’s a heavy movement, a thrust steady and certain enough to jolt tension through the whole of the body Chrome is calling hers, for the moment. There’s a knot low in her stomach, the tension of an ache without the pain; there’s friction inside her, around her, her body is trembling with tension and there’s a grip bracing her still and someone is whimpering over their breathing, every inhale catching nearly to a sob. A hand shifts, fingers slide: Chrome is reaching for Mukuro’s hand at her hip, Mukuro is reaching for her chest, both of them moving as if on a cue. Chrome’s fingers brace against Mukuro’s wrist, her grip desperate but as gentle as she can make it; Mukuro’s touch catches at the edge of her dress to urge down the dip of her neckline and slide down against her bra once again. The lace presses back, Chrome can feel the texture of it catch and pull against her taut nipple; and then Mukuro’s hand is sliding in under her to draw the weight of her breast up and free of the lace, and Chrome’s whole body shudders with tension at the feel of those fingers pressing so close against her. Her dress is askew, the hem pressed up to fall across her back and the neckline forced down, too, under the drag of Mukuro’s fingers on her; and Chrome feels herself drawing taut in every line of herself, like she’s pulling near a breaking point.

“Chrome,” Mukuro says, or Chrome thinks he says; it’s hard to tell with her ears ringing with heat, with her breathing gasping so hard in her chest. “You feel so good.” It’s a statement, simple and stripped of flattery, but the words land with the more force for their sincerity, Chrome can feel them hum through her veins as if she’s a struck bell. She sucks in a breath of air, feels it straining against the tension so filling her, and when she ducks her head down her eye opens without her conscious thought. Her body is cast to shadow, the illumination filling the room blocked by the forward angle of her shoulders and the fall of her hair draping around her; but she can still clearly see the line between white skin and dark gown, can see the dip and catch of her neckline where Mukuro has urged it away from the clasp of his fingers working over the full weight of her breast. Chrome’s breath hitches, her shoulders tense at the movement of Mukuro’s palm dragging over her; and then Mukuro’s fingers tighten, his thumb drags in to flick against the dark tip of her nipple, and Chrome can feel the friction lance through her, a burst of light to shatter all the tension that has been building against her spine and at the brace of her shoulders. Her breath rushes from her, her head drops forward; and when she moans “ _Mukuro-sama_ ” it’s with the shudder of her orgasm on her lips, the words falling from her tongue on the same surge of heat that ripples through the whole of her body like a wave to wash her into the calm of satisfaction. Chrome doesn’t look out to the party, doesn’t think of the illusion that is meant to be protecting them; she just gives way, surrendering to the pleasure coursing through her as surely as she has ever surrendered to Mukuro’s possession of her. The hand at her hip tightens, the fingers against her breast flex with a convulsive shudder, and Chrome quivers with another tremor of pleasure, deeper this time than just physical sensation, as Mukuro’s rhythm stutters and he follows her into orgasm. His hips come forward, his movement stills, and for a long moment they’re just as they are, pressing together in the shadows of a column in a full ballroom.

Chrome moves first to reclaim her awareness of their surroundings. Her heart is still pounding, Mukuro’s hands are still pressing warm against her; but as she becomes more aware of the murmur of voices echoing off the walls she can’t help but turn her head to look out at the rest of the party. The gala is still at its height, without any trace of distraction or shock directed their way; even as Chrome blinks attention out at the crowd she sees a few gazes slide right past them, eyes registering the presence of others but not holding to them long enough to indicate any interest. It’s a heady feeling, to watch people look past her while she can still feel Mukuro hot inside her; Chrome is still watching when Mukuro’s laugh hums soft through the air around them.

“They still don’t see us,” he murmurs; a statement more than the reassurance Chrome doesn’t need. “Not really.” His fingers against Chrome’s breast tighten to squeeze for a last moment of appreciation; then his touch draws away, his hand dropping to her hip to brace her steady as he rocks himself back to slide them carefully apart. Chrome lets her grip on Mukuro’s wrist go to reach for the neckline of her dress so she can tug it back up and into place; Mukuro’s fingers slide up and over her skin, trailing appreciation against her body before he catches at the pushed-up hem of her gown and draws it back to cover her. By the time Chrome is straightening from her lean against the pillar and pushing her hair back over her shoulder Mukuro has drawn himself back into perfect composure; he’s tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves when she turns to look at him, his head tilted as he considers the line of barely-there color under the flat black of his coat.

“There we go,” Mukuro says, shaking his arms to settle his sleeves into place before he looks back up to smile at Chrome. “Ready to rejoin the party, my dear?”

Chrome ducks her head, agreement coming too instinctively for her to resist; but she’s opening her mouth too, reaching for a question even as she nods. “Mukuro-sama, I’m still…”

“Mm,” Mukuro hums. His hand shifts at his side; Chrome’s gaze tracks the motion as his fingers press against the smooth line of his pocket, where she saw him slide her panties after stripping them off her legs. “Would you mind me holding onto these?” Chrome’s gaze flickers up from Mukuro’s fingers to his face; he’s smiling at her, his head tilted to the side and his lips curving on the dark of a secret. “You’re perfectly decent as you are.” He reaches out to touch against the dip of Chrome’s waist, his gaze dropping as smoothly as his fingers slide; when he leans in towards her it’s to huff a breath of heat against her hair, to flutter a smile just against her skin. “It’ll be a reminder.”

Chrome doesn’t need a reminder, not with the insides of her thighs sticky with heat and her cheeks still flushed with the pleasure of her orgasm; but Mukuro’s words flutter electricity down her spine, and dip at her lashes, and when she moves her head it’s to duck into agreement to his words. “Yes, Mukuro-sama.”

Mukuro hums in the back of his throat. “That’s my girl,” he purrs, and presses his lips into a kiss at Chrome’s forehead. Chrome’s eye shuts, her vision given over to the warm weight of darkness for a moment as Mukuro’s mouth skims her skin; she can feel the prickle of illusion giving way without seeing the shimmer of color fade from their bodies. The sound of the crowd seems to sharpen, coming more clearly as if she’s stepping through a veil, and Mukuro steps back and away as Chrome lifts her head and opens her eye to look back out at the room. There are a few heads turned towards them, gazes following their moment of intimacy with interest or jealousy or desire clear behind their attention; but they look away as quickly as Chrome looks to them, leaving the two of them to their moment of solitude for the span of another breath.

Mukuro’s touch slides from Chrome’s waist to her back, his fingers settling at the dip of her dress hardly a breath from touching her bare skin. It’s a gesture of propriety, that he keeps his hand on her dress instead of her skin; with how low the back dips, it’s still barely skirting the edge of decency, with his fingers pressing silk flush against the bare skin beneath.

“Come along, Chrome,” Mukuro says against the dark of Chrome’s hair. “Let’s return to the necessities of entertainment.”

Chrome dips her head forward and lifts her fingers from her side, just enough to brush her knuckles against the weight of Mukuro’s pocket. Her lips tighten, her mouth curves onto a smile, and she nods just once before lifting her head back to look out at the room.

“Yes, Mukuro-sama,” she says; and she steps forward to rejoin the crowd, sure in the weight of Mukuro’s touch lingering against her back.


End file.
